


second time lucky

by Yuu_chi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Deadlight Dreams, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuu_chi/pseuds/Yuu_chi
Summary: Beverly had reached out, taken his hand, and gave it the gentlest squeeze Eddie had ever felt.“You were meant to die down there,” she said, “and you didn’t. Make that count.”Eddie thinks about that a lot. Four months, two weeks. He’s supposed to be dead. He’s not. He’s not, and he has Richie, and the whole future is open before him.





	second time lucky

When Eddie wakes, it’s dark and he’s alone. 

For a moment, he thinks he’s still in the cavern, left behind as the world falls down on top of him, buried with Derry’s trash, treasures, and secrets. There’s a phantom ache in his chest, right where it’d been split open, and he feels cold all over. 

Somewhere in the far off distance a car horn sounds, rude in the midnight air, and Eddie finally breathes out. 

_You’re not in the sewer, _he thinks firmly. _You’re not in Derry. You’re in LA, in your house, in your bed. It has been four months and two weeks since you made it out of there, and It is dead. You are_ alive. 

Slowly, Eddie sits up, swinging his legs out of the bed. The sheets beside him are cool, and the alarm clock by the bed reads a very bright 2:14 in the morning. Out of habit he checks his phone and sees that at some point during the night Mike had sent a beautiful picture of the sunrise from wherever the fuck he is now. 

_loving the view, _says the accompanying message. _wish you guys were here to see it with me._

Eddie smiles and his bad cheek only pinches a little. He drops Mike a little thumbs up and leaves his phone by the bed, venturing out with a much closer destination in mind. 

Richie is sitting on the back porch that overlooks the pool, exactly where Eddie had expected him to be. There’s a mostly empty glass of what looks like bourbon on the table beside him, and Richie’s glazed eyes stare glassily out past the water, past their fence line, and into some far off middle distance that Eddie can’t ever hope to see. 

He never really understood the phrase ‘thousand yard stare’ until after Derry. Now he thinks he could write entire fucking essays about it. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, voice still gravely from sleep. Richie doesn’t look up. Eddie trails closer, setting his hand on the back of the chair and giving it a gentle shake. “Hey. Fuckface.” 

Richie stirs. Slowly, he blinks, and then glances over his shoulder. His gaze settles on Eddie’s face, and he’s not all the way back with it, Eddie can tell, but he holds out a hand on instinct alone. Eddie takes it and allows Richie to draw him around and down into his lap. The chair creaks ominously beneath them, but it hasn’t given out on them yet and Eddie’s assessed the risks and decided it can stand to weather them for now. 

“Good morning,” Richie says, voice distant. 

“It’s not morning, Rich,” Eddie says patiently. “It’s two am.” 

Richie blinks again. “Oh,” he says. 

He has a hand on Eddie’s thigh, the other wrapped around his waist to keep him from toppling to the ground. His thumb strokes gently along the skin where Eddie’s shirt has ridden up, and Eddie sighs, relaxing into the comfort of it. 

“Mike sent a photo,” Eddie says. “Some sunrise somewhere. Better than what we get here.” 

“Yeah,” Richie says, distracted.

Eddie plucks the hand from his thigh, holds it between his own, rubbing along Richie’s knuckles. “Richie,” he says. “C’mon. Focus.” 

Richie hesitates. Eddie can hear him breathe out, a shaky whisper against the column of Eddie’s throat. The arm around his waist tightens. Eddie watches as his brow puckers into a furrow, eyes dropping from the nothingness he’s been watching with avid fascination. Finally, _finally, _his gaze catches Eddie’s and there’s a spark of recognition. “Eddie?” 

“Who the fuck else would I be? If you’re letting somebody else climb into your lap like this I’m going to be mad.” 

Richie doesn’t laugh. He glances to the sky and his frown deepens. “What time is it?” 

The first time Richie did this, it’d freaked Eddie out so bad he’d wound up having a genuine, honest-to-god panic attack. It’d done neither of them any favors. Over time, Eddie has learnt that patience is the only balm for these episodes. “Just past two,” Eddie repeats. He squeezes Richie’s hand. “How long have you been out here?” 

“I don’t…” Richie glances at the empty glass by his elbow. “I don’t know. I don’t think I remember getting up.” 

Eddie wishes that was more unusual. He asks, “Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” 

Richie’s tired mouth twists into a small, sardonic smile. “What am I ever dreaming about, Eds?” 

“Well, last week you told me in vivid detail about the sex dream you had involving you, me, and Mr. Ratburn from Arthur, so I thought it might be worth asking.” 

The dry edge of Richie’s smile turns genuine. “It was a good dream,” he says. “It’s not my fault your taste in men is shit.” 

“I fucking agreed to date you, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah. That’s kind of my point.” 

Eddie sighs and reaches up, hooking his fingers under Richie’s chin and tilting his face down so Eddie can kiss him. Richie goes readily, eagerly even, the way he always is when Eddie reaches for him. Even after all these months, it hasn’t stopped being a novelty. With Myra - well. Eddie doesn’t think it’s fair to compare either of them, honestly. 

Richie’s mouth tastes soft like sleep and warm like alcohol. Eddie slips a hand up and under his shirt, pressing his palm firmly to the heated skin of Richie’s stomach, enjoying the easy intimacy of it. Eddie would be content to sit out here and kiss for the rest of the night, honestly, but Richie’s been out here long enough, and Eddie would much rather get him back to bed before the sun rises. 

When Eddie pulls away, Richie chases his mouth. Eddie uses the hand on his stomach to push him back, and Richie obeys with a sigh. “You’re a fucking tease, Kaspbrak,” he says, but the thumb he has smoothing along Eddie’s hip is anything but angry. “Can’t a man get a little night time sugar in his own house?” 

“Not if he calls it that,” Eddie says, gently disentangling himself from Richie’s lap and getting to his feet. “Also, I don’t know if you noticed, asshole, but we’re not exactly in the fucking house right now. We’re not getting slapped with a public indecency charge if I have anything to say about it.” 

“I really don’t think anybody but NASA is spying on us right now, Eds. Your paranoia is showing.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes but holds his hand to haul Richie up. Richie makes a big deal of groaning, launching to his feet as if he’s shouldering the world's greatest burden. He reels Eddie in, linking their fingers, and kisses him again, smiling against Eddie’s mouth when Eddie sighs and kisses him back. 

“You’ve gotta be up at nine for that meeting with your agent,” Eddie reminds him. “You’ll hate yourself in the morning at this rate.” 

“Jokes on you, I’m going to hate myself anyway so I might as well smooch my boyfriend while I’m at it.” 

_“Richie.” _

“What?” Richie says. “Was it the self-deprecation or the implication that I’m going to throw a wild all nighter out here on the porch?” 

“C’mon,” Eddie says, stepping away and out of Richie’s grip before he can distract him again. “Bed.” At Richie’s hopeful look, he adds, _“Sleep.” _

Back in the house, their bedroom is just how Eddie had left it, sheets mussed and cold, Richie’s good blazer tossed carelessly over the foot of the bed even though Eddie _knows _he told him to hang it up properly before they called it a night. Spitefully, Eddie leaves it be. Let Richie deal with the inevitable wrinkles in the morning. 

Richie lumbers off to the bathroom, throwing a crude “gotta piss” over his shoulder as he goes, and Eddie thinks it says a lot about his ability to compromise that he only flips him off a little. 

Eddie sinks down on his side of the bed. The light on his phone tells him there’s a new message in the chat, and when he checks, Mike’s replied to his lackluster emoji with a very careful, _shouldn’t you be asleep? _

When Mike first fucked off to travel the globe, he made it a point to download a world clock that would keep him appraised of the local time of all the Losers no matter where he was. It was a very sweet gesture and also a lot like having a stern mother (butnotsoniakaspbrakmother) looking over your shoulder at all times. 

Eddie hears the toilet flush. After a second of contemplation, he says, _we’re both awake if you want to call. _

Mike does, almost immediately. The smiling photo of his face that lights up the phone is positively beatific. Eddie answers and says, “Before you say anything, I should admit that I don’t remember where you are right now. It’s still a beautiful sunrise though.” 

_“Buenos Aires,” _Mike says easily. _“And it was a hell of a sight. Better than what you guys probably get in LA, I’ll bet.” _

Richie comes back into the room, sees Eddie on the phone and mouths _‘who’s that?’ _

“I’m putting you on speaker,” Eddie says, and does just that. “Richie’s here too.” 

_“Hey, Rich,” _Mike says. _“How you doing?” _

Richie’s face cracks into a grin instantly. He sits down on the bed beside Eddie, bouncing the mattress a little, and Eddie elbows him in the gut on purpose. “Oh, you know, living the boring married life while you go gallivanting off around the seven kingdoms.” 

_“I think you have to be actually married to live the married life.” _

“The married life is a state of being not a legal binding,” Richie says in a sage voice. “Besides, we’re getting there, don’t rush us. How do you know we haven’t eloped?” 

_“Because the rest of the Losers and I would murder both of you in your sleep if you got married without us there,” _Mike says, chipper and calm. _“Besides, Eddie’s too sensible for that.” _

“You see, I don’t disagree, but the way you said ‘sensible’ makes it sound like a bad thing, and now I’m just kind of mad,” Eddie says, and beside him Richie laughs, making their shoulders brush. 

Mike laughs too, and the reception makes it sound crackly and old, but in a pleasant sort of way. _“Do you want to talk about why you’re awake at two in the morning?” _

Richie makes a face beside him, but he doesn’t shut down completely, which is significant progress in and of itself. In the beginning, Eddie couldn’t even get him to talk about it without Richie making awkward, increasingly unbelievable excuses and hightailing it from the room. 

Eddie meets Richie’s eyes steadily, holding the phone carefully between the both of them as he says, “Just a bad night, you know?” 

_“Ah,” _Mike says, because he has the wisdom of the rest of the Losers combined. _“Still?” _

“It’s getting better,” Richie says, and he only sounds a touch defensive. “I’m not… it’s not so bad anymore. Fuck, if I have to live with this for the rest of my life, I’ll still consider it an even trade. What’s a little PTCD between friends, huh?”

_“PTCD?” _

Eddie, who has heard this line before, sighs and says, “Post Traumatic Clown Disorder.” 

Mike laughs again, startled but fond. _“You pitched that name to your therapist yet?” _

“Not yet,” Richie says. “I’m still trying to figure out how to bring up the ‘harassed by a serial killer clown from outer space’ without being committed angle first.” 

_“Probably a good idea,” _Mike agrees. Then, gently, _“You should speak to Bev.” _

Richie does, pretty regularly too. Some nights, by the time Eddie’s woken from his own nightmares and noticed Richie’s missing, he finds him on the phone already, whispering gently down the line to a girl a whole country away and yet possibly the only person who can understand the horrible, clockwork tragedy that plays out in his head. 

Richie seems to genuinely consider the idea for a second before he discards it. “Not tonight,” he says. “It wasn’t - it wasn’t so bad. I think I just want to sleep, honestly.” 

_“I can stay on the line for a bit if you need,” _Mike offers. 

“Nah,” Richie says. He playfully hip checks Eddie and nearly sends them both careering off the bed. The smile he gives Eddie is both small and shy and somehow warm enough to make Eddie feel as if he’s looking at the sun. “It’s fine. Eds is here.” 

Four months and two weeks since Richie carried him out of the collapsing sewer, kept Eddie’s boiling blood in his chest with nothing but the careful pressure of his hands. Four months and two weeks since Eddie woke up in the hospital, bleary and confused, and Richie had said _oh thank god _and cried into Eddie’s shoulder for a half hour straight while Eddie, confused, sore, and delirious, clumsily tried to pat his hair. 

They’d kissed for the first time two days later, when Eddie was well enough to do anything besides sleep, and Richie’s hands had shaken as he pressed them against Eddie’s cheeks. He still shakes when they kiss sometimes, and Eddie has never stopped being in pure, unadulterated awe that this is _real. _

They say their goodbyes to Mike and Eddie promises to set his stupid sunrise as his phone wallpaper, as his become the group tradition with Mike’s latest photos, and hangs-up. 

Richie crawls back under the covers, patting impatiently beside him until Eddie kicks off his slippers and joins him. Instantly, his cold hands grab at Eddie’s waist, hauling him up against his chest as if Eddie plans on slipping away at some point the moment Richie closes his eyes. Eddie circles his fingers around one of Richie’s wrists, but not to pull him away, just to feel the thump of his pulse. 

“You know,” Richie says, tucking his chin over the top of Eddie’s head. “You don’t need to call somebody every time I have an episode.” 

“I know,” Eddie says. “Who says I’m calling for you, huh? Maybe I just want to talk to our friends too.” 

“Seriously, Eds,” Richie says, in that soft voice he doesn’t use very often because it leaves him vulnerable to being taken exactly at face value which is not something he often permits himself to be. “You’re more than enough to talk me out of it.” 

Eddie knows that. He does. They wouldn’t be who they are - Eddie-and-Richie - if they didn’t have that kind of perfectly balanced magnetism, the ability to talk one another away from the edge of every ledge they toe too close to. 

“It’s not about that,” Eddie says. “I just… I think you need it sometimes.” 

Richie’s quiet for a second and then he allows, “Maybe sometimes.” 

“I don’t know what you dream about. I don’t know when I’m going to be enough, and when it’ll be better if I get one of the others on board. So it’s like, why take the chance?” 

The arm around Eddie’s waist squeezes. “You could ask.” 

“I have. You don’t tell me jack shit. You’re always like ‘oh, no, Eds, I’m fine, don’t trouble yourself’, which is such fucking bullshit and you know it.” 

Richie snorts. “It’s a good thing I’m the one who does the Voices because _man, _I do _not _sound like that.” 

Eddie squirms and manages to roll over. Richie’s face is very carefully blank, but when Eddie meets his eyes the tentative steel in his expression melts a little. Eddie had known he would. Richie’s a shit liar in general, but Eddie learn weeks ago that all he needs to do is _look _at him and Richie crumbles like sand. The intensity of what that means might be terrifying if Eddie wasn’t just as bad. 

“I’m not going to tell you I love you because I think I’ve been disgustingly domestic enough for now,” Eddie says, and Richie’s face cracks into a giant smile, “but please let me and our friends help when you’re having a bad night. None of us mind. We _want _to.” 

“I know, I know,” Richie says. He pauses, and the room is quiet. Eddie waits him out. After a second, Richie admits, “Well, I know it intellectually. It takes a little more to, like, _believe_ it, I guess.” 

Eddie sighs. “You’re such a fucking idiot.” 

“Hey! I’m being honest! You _have _to be nice.” 

Eddie reaches up and gently pats Richie’s cheek. “This _is _me being nice,” he says. “I know you’ve got…” he searches for a delicate way to phrase the next part and comes up empty. “Some issues -.” 

“Wow, Eds. Tell it like it is, huh?” 

“- _but,”_ Eddie continues, undeterred, “we’ve all got our fucking issues, and you’d never think twice about helping us, would you?” 

“No,” Richie says, automatic and instant, loyalty without thought. “God, of course not.” 

Eddie pats his cheek again. “There you go, asshole,” he says. “There’s your answer.” 

Richie reaches up and plucks Eddie’s hand away. “Stop that, I’m not a dog.” 

“Of course not,” Eddie says. “You’re all bark and no bite. Get it? Because you’re Trashmouth.” 

“How did I fall in love with somebody whose sense of humor is on the same level as a wet paper bag?” Richie wonders aloud. His thumb is rubbing along the back of Eddie’s hand. “A modern tragedy, really.” 

“Shared PTCD bonding,” Eddie says. “It really does you in.” 

Richie actually laughs at that, and he looks at Eddie with such open fondness, adoration bordering on devotion, that Eddie feels his throat tighten up. 

Four months and two weeks ago he thought he was going to die alone in the place he hated most on this whole god forsaken planet. He’d thought, as he bled out on the ground, _this is really how it’s going to be, huh? A lifetime of fucking regret and not a single thing to be proud of. _

Afterwards, when Eddie had not, in fact, died, Beverly had sat beside him in the hospital while Richie snored in the chair against the far wall and said, “I’d always thought you were meant to die down then.” 

Eddie was so very drugged and all he’d managed was a very slurred, “Huh?” 

“In the sewers. With the others, I’d always seen how they’d die if they never came back to fight It,” she said. “Horrible deaths, but there was at least some future there. You though - I’d only ever seen one thing, and that was you in the sewers with a barb through your chest.” 

Eddie stared at her, stupid and sick. Beverly stared back, face firm even as her bottom lip trembled. She had reached out, taken his hand, and gave it the gentlest squeeze Eddie had ever felt. 

“You were meant to die down there,” she said, “and you didn’t. Make that count.” 

Eddie thinks about that a lot. Four months, two weeks. He’s supposed to be _dead. _He’s not. He’s not, and he has Richie, and the whole future is open before him. 

He’s never asked Richie what he saw in the Deadlight - what he sees when his dreams pull him restless and distant from the bed. What he sees when he looks at Eddie with empty eyes and a slack face, existing on a plane of reality that Eddie can’t ever hope to inhabit. He’s thought about it. Once, after the first really, really bad episode, he came close. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to know. _This _is his second chance - _their_ second chance - and whatever bullshit Pennywise had filled Richie’s head with can’t touch them now. Eddie will make damn sure of that. He’s never wanted to fight like this for anything before; had drifted into his job, into his marriage. He’d floated through life unattached to anything, a passenger in his own existence. 

Eddie doesn’t think he could do that again if he tried. _This _is real. And he’ll rip apart anything that tries to take it from him. 

It’s possible something of his thoughts might show on his face, because the dopey look on Richie’s face goes even dopier, which Eddie hadn’t thought was possible. He says, “God, you’re so…” 

Eddie raises a brow. “So?” he prompts. 

Richie swallows thickly. “I wasn’t kidding before,” he says. “When I was talking to Mike.” 

“About which part? I hope it wasn’t pitching PTCD to your therapist, because I’ve met her and she does _not _deserve to have to deal with that.” 

“About marrying you,” Richie clarifies. He doesn’t sound even the slightest bit embarrassed to say it. “I’m really gonna do that. I think about it all the time.” 

His hair is messy in the dark, and there are little indents beneath his eyes where his glasses sit. Eddie stares at him. “Oh,” he says, stupidly. Then, as his mouth comes back online if not his brain, “I hope this isn’t your proposal, because if it is then I’m incredibly underwhelmed.” 

“You’ll know when I’m proposing,” Richie assures him. “There will be music. Flowers. Balloons.” He pauses, seems to reconsider that last one. “Actually, scratch that. No balloons. The flowers are still a go though.” 

“Is this a proposal or a prom?” Eddie asks. 

“I don’t see why I should have to pick,” Richie says, which is dumb and makes no sense, and Eddie loves him so much it actually _hurts. _The dull ache in his ribs throbs, but it’s secondary at best. 

“Go to sleep, asshole,” Eddie says. “You’re not supposed to tell me about your potential proposal plans, anyway.” 

Generously, Richie says, “You can propose first if you want.” 

Eddie snorts. “I’ve already done it once and it was miserable,” he says. “I want to be the one who gets to enjoy it this time.” 

Richie grins. “Why, Mr. Kaspbrak, I think you just admitted you might enjoy being proposed to by none other than little old me. How very _forward _of you.” 

Richie leans in for a kiss and Eddie shoves his hand in his face. “Go the fuck to sleep before I fucking make you,” he says. “Whenever you nap in meetings your manager always texts me, like it’s somehow my responsibility.” 

Richie laughs softly, taking Eddie’s hand and lifting it out of his face, pausing to press a kiss to Eddie’s wrist as he goes. “Okay, okay. I’m sleeping, I promise.” 

Eddie rolls over, putting his back to him again before Richie can pick at him, starting another argument that keeps them going in circles until the alarm blares and they’re both tired and cranky. It’s happened before and it will absolutely happen again, but not tonight. Not right now. 

Richie’s hand lands on his waist, familiar and reassuring. Eddie shuffles back and the hand slips higher, underneath Eddie’s shirt. Richie’s fingers ghost along the mess of scar tissue that dominates his chest, as it does nearly every night, and then settles low on his stomach. 

Softly, Eddie asks, “You’re alright?” 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Thanks for coming to find me.” 

Because it’s late and Eddie’s tired and it’s _Richie, _he can’t help but say, “I always do.” 

He can’t see it, but he knows Richie’s smiling. “Yeah,” he says. “You do.” 

It’s stupid, really, how happy Eddie is these days. He didn’t know life could be like this. He didn’t know they could both be this fucked up, this genuinely damaged, and still… get to be _happy. _

Four months, two weeks down. 

The rest of his fucking life to go. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is an exercise in "I'm too tired to write-write but I'm have a lot of reddie feelings so I guess I'll just vent write" and then accidently writing a full 4k fic in one sitting at 2am. 
> 
> twitter: @doingwritebyme  
tumblr: glenflower


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